Imaginary Friend
by TypewriterTardis
Summary: "After the Fall, John didn't venture outside 221B for exactly one week and five days." John comes up with a new strategy for dealing with Sherlock's... death. But how much is his imagination and how much is not remains to be seen. Rated T because I'm not sure exactly what Minor Coarse Language means.


**A/N: Very loosely based on this post I found on tumblr: post/16889322649/this-would-be-major-heartfail-note-i-did-not**

**It's just my version of that, hope you enjoy!**

After the Fall, John didn't venture outside 221B for exactly one week and five days.

Each of those days either Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft or both would tap at the door and let themselves in. Each time, they would tell John he ought to keep it locked. Each time, John reminded them that Sherlock might not have his keys when he came back.

Mrs. Hudson brought him groceries, milk and some tea usually. She brought him scones every day at 4 when they were supposed to be having tea together, but he never heated the water. She would sigh and put the kettle on the stove and bring him a scone for the wait and John would eat it in silence, hearing her telling him things.

He wasn't really listening, and she knew it too, but Mycroft told her he needed someone to talk to him. "Talk at, more like," she grumbled, but she did it anyway.

Most of the time, Mycroft came when John was asleep. But he came at 2 PM every Tuesday, stared at John, told him to keep the door locked, and walked out again.

Secretly, John suspected that his therapist was somehow involved.

* * *

The first time he set foot outside the door of the flat was to go with Mrs. Hudson to the grave.

And he glared down at the stone, feeling slightly foolish when he begged, "Please don't be dead."

* * *

The next time was to visit his therapist, who told him to write about it. It took a while, staring at an empty word document, clenching his teeth, unclenching them, closing his eyes, opening them.

And when he finally began to type something, he heard Sherlock saying in his head, "I'd be lost without my blogger" and he lost his nerve.

It took him 13 tries, 13 empty word documents, including the first one, to finally start, but when he did, he found that, strangely enough, his therapist had been right. It did help.

* * *

So eventually, he went back to work at the hospital. He saw Sarah every day, she seemed slightly interested, he couldn't be sure, but he felt strangely unaffected.

He fell into a routine – wake up, go to work, come home, sleep – that wouldn't have been enough if it weren't for the details that made it worthwhile.

On the way home from work, he stopped on the street and looked up, every day, the spot he stood and watched the first time. In his mind, he saw the billowing coat, heard the voice like a recording, "I guess this is my note," and watched the Fall.

The first day he did it, he imagined he saw Sherlock when he got home, sitting in the arm chair, facing the door, in his bathrobe, fingers splayed, pressed tip-to-tip, elbows on the armrests. He was so real that John almost called his name before Sherlock disappeared.

And so the next day, and the next, and the next, when John got to that spot on the sidewalk, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before watching the fall, and when he got home, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before looking around. And when he did, Sherlock was there to greet him.

Sometimes he apologized first, sometimes explained. Each day, the explanation was slightly different, though after a while, John started to run out of explanations and began to stick to his old favorites. But the apologies didn't take long to perfect. A hug, an I'm sorry, an I missed you, and a John... from Sherlock and a You bloody bastard, a You're an idiot, you know that, an I missed you too, and another hug from John. John made tea then and forgot about the water, until Sherlock asked in a peeved voice, "Aren't you going to get that?" and he did.

It was... Easy.

Sherlock didn't change much after the first few weeks, there was never _too_ much variation in what he said, what he did. Coming from one man's imagination, there weren't _that_ many alternatives.

One day, however, it did alter. Just a little bit.

For the first time, Sherlock was asleep on the floor. John wondered at that and supposed that his subconscious was getting bored. _Bored_. But Sherlock woke up and the apologies started – first with the I'm so sorry, John, then an I can explain, then another I'm sorry.

John didn't wait around to hear the rest. He headed to the kitchen.

"John please, I'm sorry," Sherlock pleaded. _My subconscious is really creative today_, John thought mildly, ignoring Sherlock and walking to the stove.

As Sherlock hovered behind him, nervously shifting from one foot to the other, eyes darting around the flat, John wondered if he should perhaps call his therapist. Was all this imaginary friend shit dangerous? Behind him, Sherlock was asking questions, did Mrs. Hudson bring him food, did Mycroft come by ("He said he would, he promised he would"), and would John forgive him because even though he shouldn't, Sherlock needed him, needed John and he was so, so sorry.

John listened to his apologies, his pleading, his explanations. But he didn't turn around.

Finally, the water boiled and Sherlock stopped talking. John stared into the space above the stove.

"Aren't you going to get that?" asked Sherlock quietly.

John removed the teapot from the burner.

* * *

After that, the Sherlock in John's mind calmed down a bit. He didn't pull any stunts, didn't follow John around. He imagined him sitting in the armchair in his bathrobe sometimes, other times in a suit. He still greeted John at the door though, sad-eyed. Sherlock was oddly stubborn for an imaginary friend: He wouldn't go away when John imagined he did any more.

John worried that that might be a bad sign.

Then one afternoon Sherlock disappeared for a few hours and John sat around, filling out paperwork, doing a bit of blogging. It became a daily occurrence, during John's period of distraction. It was during these Sherlock-less stretches that Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft came by usually.

It became so easy for John to see Sherlock sitting there that he stopped having to try. He didn't even have to close his eyes any more... Sherlock was there to greet him the second he stepped in the door, and John grew accustomed to seeing him there.

Till one day, Sherlock wasn't.

John frowned and made tea, waiting patiently while the water boiled away and Sherlock appeared at his elbow to ask him if he was going to "get that."

He came accompanied by Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, wearing slightly more worried than usual expressions. Mycroft blustered, brandishing papers, headlines blaring of "Redemption" and "Fake Idols" and "Sleuths." Mrs. Hudson fretted, waving her hand in front of John's face and wringing her hands.

John made an offended face.

"Oh John," her distress beginning to pique his interest. "Don't you know Sherlock is back?"

John turned slowly to Sherlock, whose mouth was pressed in a severe line.

John opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Hadn't you _noticed_?" Mycroft gasped, incredulous and almost lost for words.

"You – You," John stammered. "You can see him too?"


End file.
